Three Minutes and Forty Seconds
by svenka
Summary: Crawford's a boxer with vision. Psychic visions, that is. He soars above the competition with lethal ease. But if nobody can touch him, why does the future look so grim?


Three minutes and forty-five seconds.

Forty-six.

Forty-seven.

Three minutes and forty-eight seconds he'd been sitting on the locker room bench, watching the clock tick off the wasted moments. Three minutes and fifty seconds since the vision. Less than ten minutes until his fight. When he closed his eyes, he could see the match begin. His opponent pulling at the ropes in the far corner, overeager. The man's body glistening with nervous sweat. He could see the first clash of their gloves. Brad would land the first punch. Dodge the second. Move with superhuman speed past the third to land the forth against his opponent's jaw. Brad wasn't particularly strong or fast. When people watched him, they always wondered how he managed to pull a win from such unreasonable odds.

But only he and one other man knew the truth.

"Schuldig," Brad murmured, just moments before the door flew open, cracking against the far wall. A man with flaming red hair swept through the doorway, greeting him with a predatory smile.

"You seem stressed," his manager purred. Brad could feel his nerves cringe as the corners of his mind were prodded by wiry legs of energy.

"Warn me before you do that," Brad said sharply, looking out the window. It was dark outside. He could see only himself, reflected starkly in sharp contrasts. It was like the world had been deprived of all gray areas, leaving only the brightest whites and the darkest shadows.

"Right. Warn _you_," Schuldig laughed, leaning against the locker opposite him. His pose was graceful, but Brad knew him too well to overlook the tightness in his posture. His manager was worried. He should be worried. "Tell me about this vision of yours."

Brad looked at him, frowning.

"What's the point? You saw it, didn't you?"

Schuldig shrugged, "You know I have trouble seeing your visions. They're always a little blurry. Besides, I want you to reason through it with me. Research says talking is therapeutic." He grinned, unable to hide his amusement at the idea.

"There is no reason," Brad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Only a few unconnected flashes and the vision itself. Nothing in between."

"Come on," Schuldig chuckled. "There has to be a cause. There's always a cause."

Brad didn't reply. There was nothing else to say. There was no cause. He had absolutely no idea why, in a little over one hour, he would be lying in the bed of an ambulance, teetering on the edge of death.

There was a long silence. Behind the door, the roar of the crowd was just barely audible. The walls were purposefully thick, creating a muted setting for boxers to psyche themselves up before their match.

"Well, here's what we know," Schuldig said suddenly, his voice sharp with renewed vigor. "We know you're here now. We know you get hurt later, after the match."

Brad nodded. It was obvious what he had to do. "I'm going to throw the-"

"You have to fight."

The boxer's eyes bugged. Yet another thing he hadn't seen coming. The list was getting far too long for comfort. It made him nervous.

"W… what?!" he spat, jumping to his feet. "I could _die_ out there tonight, Schuldig!"

The redhead sported his usual cocky grin, but his eyes were sharp and tight at the corners, "You don't know that. You know nothing." Brad took a step back, stung. Schuldig was right. He knew absolutely nothing. "You could throw the match and have an angry fan stick a knife in your back."

Brad laughed dryly, "Yeah. Some normal, scrawny, drunken fan is just gonna waltz up and stab me. Are you insane? I've beaten some of the most talented fighters in the world, Schuldig."

"Then you're sure it's your opponent?" Schuldig asked, pulling Brad's gloves from the shelf. The redhead didn't want to push, but if Brad didn't get ready soon, the decision would be out of their hands. He didn't want to trouble the boxer with such morbid details, but the higher-ups were more than annoyed at Brad Crawford's rise to the top. Some were speaking of behind-the-scenes dealings. Exchanging money for wins. Cheating. If Brad was even a second late, they would jump at the chance to disqualify him.

"No, I'm not sure, but it makes the most sense," Crawford said, reflexively slipping on the gloves as they were handed to him. Schuldig let out a silent sigh of relief, glancing at the clock. Five minutes left. The low murmur of the announcer echoed through the walls. They needed to decide quickly.

And Schuldig needed Crawford to fight. Throwing the match on a hunch was more than ridiculous. It was bad business. This would devastate Crawford's career and destroy Schuldig's reputation as a manager.

"No, it makes no sense whatsoever," Schuldig snapped, ushering Brad toward the door. The walls throbbed with the crowd's excitement. "You've gone up against how many of this same type? The worst thing that can happen in the ring is a concussion. From what I saw in your vision, a concussion is the least of your worries. The way I see it, the ring is the safest place on earth for you right now." Crawford couldn't argue with that. "Besides, if it looks like you're gonna get your ass kicked, I can always…" He trailed off, tapping his temple. A mental attack. Crawford had never seen it, but from the way Schuldig could invade minds, he didn't doubt the man's capabilities.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, but Brad couldn't help but feel reassured. Schuldig's logic was sound. As he was thrust through the doors into the hallway, he was greeted by a number of smiling workers, who patted his arms and shoulders and ushered him out toward the ring. Schuldig was yelling things in his ear. The usual things. How he couldn't fail. How he'd really buffed up during the last week. How delicious the advertising deals would be when Crawford won. How amazing that shining belt would feel against his palms. Schuldig had snapped easily back into his usual role, sending waves of soothing confidence directly into Brad's consciousness.

In the few moments it took for Brad to reach the ring, his worries had all but vanished. He kept his eyes to the ground, but in his peripherals he could see the hand-made signs bearing his name. The calls and screams and cries that intensified as he burst into view. Schuldig was right. The worst that could happen in the ring was a concussion, which would ultimately end the match. Leaving would be far more dangerous, especially now that he'd made a healthy appearance. He couldn't back down. His ability reached forward, feeling its way through the dark muck of the future. The details of the match were starting to clear. The suffocating fog that had been haunting him was finally starting to roll back. Brad sighed with relief and climbed into the ring, watching his opponent pull at the ropes in the far corner. The man's body glistened with sweat. The guy was nervous. He should be nervous. Crawford had quite a reputation, and from what he could see, that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

The match went without a hitch. Crawford allowed the man a few taps so that the fight wouldn't seem completely one-sided. A couple would even leave bruises. By the time his opponent was starting to sway unsteadily on his feet, Brad had barely broken a sweat. A monstrous digital clock clicked away the minutes. If he could stretch out the match, he could potentially offset his fatal vision.

_Don't stretch it too far. People are starting to wonder if you're just playing with the guy._

A punch whistled toward Crawford's head, connecting solidly with his cheek. Head reeling, he backed up, assuming a more defensive posture until his vision cleared. He hated it when Schuldig sent him telepathic messages during a match. He snarled into his mouthpiece, wiping the blood off his cheek with a glove.

_Never mind. That fixed it. …For now._

Feeling the warning in Schuldig's words, Crawford made his next right hook count. It caught the boxer on his left jaw, knocking him backwards. While the man's head was still spinning, Brad punched him full in the face. His body went limp, falling to the floor in a twitching heap. Crawford turned his back. Through his mind's eye, he could see the crowd cheering. The referee grabbing his hand and holding it high. Winner.

_Nice. This'll probably get us at least two commercial deals, babe._

Brad rolled his eyes, spitting the mouthpiece out into his palm as his manager hopped into the ring, red hair blazing in the harsh light. The referee grabbed his arm, holding it in the air. The crowd cheered.

But the lights faded all too quickly. The audience that had cried and cheered for him, thriving on excitement, turned almost instantly into a mass of regular working folk, leaving calmly through the clearly labeled exits. Crawford was ushered back down the hallway. Without the unified roar of the crowd to fill the empty spaces of the building, the silence was deafening. Brad waited in the locker room, changing as slowly as humanly possible. Schuldig tossed Crawford's gloves in the air for entertainment, checking his watch every thirty seconds.

"You keep this snail thing up, I'm gonna leave you to your fate," the redhead joked, shoving the gloves in Brad's bag. Brad shot him an icy glare, sliding on a t-shirt. "But seriously, is it really a good idea to hang around after the guards and stuff leave? Isn't this kind of asking for the stuff in your vision?"

"I don't think I'll be any safer out there," Brad mumbled, tying his shoes.

"Well, if you're so freaked out about it, why not lock the door and hunker down for a while? Alone, of course. Never know. I might be the cause of all this," Schuldig chuckled, checking his watch again.

"Excuse me if I'm wasting your precious time," Brad snapped angrily, pulling on a light jacket and snatching his bag off the floor. "It's not like I'm asking you to wait."

Schuldig looked away, smiling to himself. Beneath the anger, he could feel Brad's pulse of panic at the very idea of him leaving. And in spite of himself, he wanted to see what kind of guy could possibly put a dent in his invincible friend. A guy like that could make him a boatload of cash, if he could manage to harness its raw power.

Schuldig shot a glance at Crawford, but the man's eyes were wide and empty. A vision? The telepath reached forward, trying to gather as much information as he could without interrupting the delicate process. A brick of mental energy hit him, making his vision black out for a moment. He leaned heavily against the lockers, fighting off darkness and nausea.

Crawford grunted, pulling himself out of it. The vision was giving him absolutely nothing useful. He'd never received a sight like that before. It was strange. Objects. Sounds. Glimpses of scenery. Blinding flashes of light. All of the important parts were sucked away, as if a black hole existed right in the middle of space time.

"Schuldig?" he asked in surprise at seeing his manager's hunched-over form. The telepath waved a dismissive hand at him. He grinned, realization dawning on him. "You catch some of that crazy vision? Wanna talk it out? I hear it's therapeutic."

The long, grating whine of metal against metal made Brad's head snap up. The noise was close, as if someone were scraping metal right above his head. His eyes darted around the room, finally landing on the network of pipes crisscrossing the ceiling. It was probably just an industrial noise. A sound the building always made, but was usually masked by the roaring crowd. Probably.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Brad murmured, readjusting his bag across his shoulder and hauling Schuldig up by one arm.

His manager pushed him off, straightening his jacket and walking shakily toward the door. Crawford held it open for him, grinning. Visions definitely packed a punch. He was surprised Schuldig had never felt these effects before. He was certain the telepath had eavesdropped on a fair share of his sights. Outside the room, the hallway was dark and cold. Most of the lights had been shut off. When the door slammed shut, the blast echoed several times before finally dying in the distance.

"It's about time."

White teeth, bared like fangs. Thin, pale lips turned up at the corners. Pale fingers wrapped lovingly around the hilt of a knife, which was dragged painfully slowly along the side of an overhead pipe. Despite the proximity and echo, the voice was airy, sounding as though it had traveled over a long distance through layers of thin sheets. And in spite of his pearly white skin and clothes, Crawford got the strangest impression that the man was coated in crimson. His very essence screamed blood.

And still, nothing. Darkness. The future was absent. A vast, silent expanse, much like he expected most people experienced on a regular basis. The only way he could see the man in front of him was the conventional way. His eyes.

"Schuldig?" Crawford murmured. This was the perfect time for a mental attack.

The telepath shook his head, inching off to the side, "I got nothing, man. Literally, nothing. It's like he doesn't exist or something."

"Don't look so worried. I'm not supposed to kill you," purred the white creature in front of them. His amber eyes lost some of their light, as if this fact grieved him. "Just supposed to send a message."

"And that would be?" Brad asked, lowering himself into a fighting stance.

"Something about winning, it was. 'Can't win all the time' or 'stay down' or something to that effect. Old men talk too much for my taste. Personally, I just wanted the chance to play with a boxer," the man let out a bird-like peal of laughter, launching himself in their direction with superhuman speed. Even with his ability, Crawford wasn't sure he could've dodged.

It took just moments for the fight to end. Without his ability, Crawford was just a normal, fairly muscular guy with decent reflexes. And his opponent was a monster. The creature didn't even use his knife, although Brad felt the smash of its hilt a fair number of times. Schuldig was no help. He disappeared at the first opening, ducking someplace safe to watch the fight.

A well-placed kick to his stomach made Crawford crumple, face pressed against the cold tile. It felt good against what he was certain was a broken jaw.

"Boring. Totally boring," his opponent whined, grabbing Brad's face and pulling it up to eye-level. Brad grunted, pain shooting down his neck and radiating through every point in his abused body. "I watched you fight today. You aren't fighting like that now. Why not?"

Crawford mumbled unintelligibly, unable to open his mouth for a proper response. Unimpressed, the monster dropped his head, which cracked audibly against the tile, sending strange flashes across Brad's vision.

"Disappointing. You're doing this on purpose, hn? Purposely denying me my fun."

The attacker readjusted his knife, clenching it hard in his palm.

"Wait a minute!" Schuldig cut in, voice shaking. Crawford had never been happier to hear the man's whiney tenor. "We should talk about this! You like to fight?"

White hair rustled as he nodded.

"I can set you up to fight! Good, exciting fights! This guy is nothing, right? Well, I can match you with people that are harder. You'll have loads of fun! But if you kill him, I won't do it. You'll have to go back to… uh… killing babies or whatever you do."

A long silence, then the dull shuck of a knife being replaced into its hilt.

Schuldig sighed, shifting uncomfortably under the man's unwavering amber gaze. It was ridiculous for anyone to have a stare like that. No, he had to keep talking. "So what's your name, huh kid?"

"Farfarello." No change of expression.

"Farfarello, huh? That's a nifty name. You'll have to tell me about it sometime."

The rattling sound of Schuldig's voice continued, but Crawford stopped listening. His head was filled with needle-coated cotton and every word made the mess vibrate against his nerves. He heard the musical sound of cell phone buttons being pushed. Felt the pain of being rearranged. Movement. Voices. Sounds. Bright, swirling lights. Cold objects being pressed against his flesh. Small, sharp things being pressed into his skin.

And finally, a vision.

For once, he could see the white-haired man. Farfarello. They were talking pleasantly, as though the man hadn't just tried to kill him. …Tried. So he would survive. Well, he certainly wouldn't be able to box professionally again. Injuries like this would end his career. During his hospital stay, he would have to put some thought into what his next path would be. At the moment, revenge certainly seemed like a satisfying option.


End file.
